


31 shades of purple

by Adara_Rose



Category: Gotham (TV), Gotham (TV) RPF
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Kinktober 2017, M/M, Other: See Story Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-01-08 16:57:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 4,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12258387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adara_Rose/pseuds/Adara_Rose
Summary: Collection of kinktober 2017 drabbles.Mix of romance, fluff, smut and a dash or two of angst.





	1. Day 1 - “Aphrodisiacs”

**Author's Note:**

> Please see the title of each drabble for warnings.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: slight non-con (Oswald has ingested and aphrodisiac and Edward can't resist him)

Edward knows something is wrong almost immediately. Oswald’s eyes are dazed, unfocused, and he can’t seem to keep on his feet for long.

“Someone put some shit in the drinks at the gala” the driver - Ed never could remember the man’s name - says as he unceremoniously pushes the very out of it mayor into his arms. 

“Hello gorgeous” Oswald says in a lilting tone that isn’t like him at all. “How much for the night?”

“I’m not for sale” and why is that the first thing out of his mouth?

“Classy, I like it.” Oswald’s hands - which should be really clumsy, if he is as drunk as he is but aren’t - find Edward’s collar and harshly pulls him down into a kiss. It’s clumsy, and sloppy, and it knocks his glasses askew. It also turns his legs into wet noodles and his dick into an iron bar. God, he needs laid more often. 

“Is that a gun in your pocket?” oswald giggles in a way that really should not be this cute, especially not as he’s clearly trying to climb Edward like a tree at the same time. Edward looks up, desperate for help, but the henchman is long gone. He’s alone with a mayor who’s undressing him with alarming speed.

“What the hell did you drink?” Edward manages to ask as one of Oswald’s hands sneak into his pants to wrap around his cock as if it's an old friend.

“No idea, but I feel fantastic. Or I will feel fantastic once I get -this-.” He gives a little squeeze, and Ed squeaks in indignation. It’s definitely  _ not _ arousal. 

“You-” he manages but is silenced by another of those wet noodle kisses.

 

It has him so befuddled he doesn’t protest when Oswald drags him onto the floor and starts ripping of the rest of his clothing.

“You are going to hate me in the morning” he groans, then grabs the nearest part of Oswald’s expensive silk shirt he can get his hands on and rips it off.

After that, things are a bit of a blur.


	2. Day 2 - “dirty talk”

Oswald is an infuriating creature. Edward would eat his hat if anyone managed to disprove it. He can count the amount of days in a week Oswald doesn’t drive him up the wall on one hand, and have fingers left over. 

But the worst thing is how oswald uses his hearing against him. Edward has always had very good hearing, and since he was stupid enough to tell oswald so it has been used against him. 

Like right now. Ed has absolutely no idea what the meeting is about, because whenever someone else is talking Oswald murmurs, in a tone barely audible, so many deliciously wicked things.

_ “Bend you over the desk, fuck you raw, make you howl-” _ “-therefore we highly recommend that you-”  _ “gonna fill you up good, then clean you out with my tongue…” _ “which would lead to increased sales in-”  _ “fuck your ass until you beg me to stop, use you like a whore, such a beautiful slut-” _

Edward squirms in his seat. Parts his legs to give his throbbing cock a modicum of relief. Tries to look like he isn’t about to combust.

“Would you not agree, Mr Nygma?” Wait,  _ what _ ? 

“Uhm, I-” he stammers, trying not to let on that he has no idea what’s going on. He forgets to finish his sentence, however, when Oswald looks him straight in the eye and mouths, “slut.”


	3. Day 3 - “Public sex"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings: semi-public, blowjob, cum swallowing.

 

Edward tries to make himself as small as possible, which isn’t easy when he’s crouched down under Oswald’s desk, but a challenge is a challenge and he never could resist when Oswald smirked at him like that. So, here he is. 

 

Oswald’s fingers grip his hair almost painfully, but really it just increases his excitement. Edward runs his hands up Oswald’s legs as he forces his throat muscles to relax, sucking more of his lover’s hard cock into his mouth. His head is at an awkward angle, but lately he’s found himself addicted to the taste and feel of Os, and he doesn’t care if every single muscle in his body protests as long as he can feast .

 

Ed wraps one hand around the base of Oswald’s dick, stroking him firmly as he works his tongue over and around the tip, moaning softly at the slightly bitter taste of the precome leaking endlessly from the thin slit. He wants it all, every drop, insatiable and greedy and eager. 

 

Oswald’s fingers alternate between ripping and stroking, a low moan slipping past his lips now and then. His hips shift listlessly, pushing his throbbing dick deeper into Ed’s mouth. Ed chokes, moans, and forces his throat to relax. He’s practiced this, actually; it is  _ not _ as easy to deep-throat as porn will have you believe. 

 

There is a knock at the door, and Ed freezes. What does he do now? He can’t get out, he’d be noticed. But apparently, Oswald already has a plan, because his fingers tighten to the point of pain in Ed’s hair as he pushes his dick deeper into his mouth, in a silent signal to  _ keep going _ , even as he calls; “Enter!”

 

The clack of heels is rhythmic, and without knowing it Ed starts bobbing his head in the same cadence, trying to be as quiet as possible. A woman speaks, but he doesn’t really hear what she has to say. His blood is throbbing in his ears, the depravity of what he’s doing too intense to care for anything else. 

 

Allowing a hint of teeth to press against the vein on the underside of Oswald’s cock, Ed moves his hand to massage his balls roughly, knowing just how much Oswald enjoys when he does that. He is rewarded by a strangled noise coming from the man’s mouth mid-sentence, punished by a harsh tug at his hair. Ed whimpers, his neglected cock throbbing with need. 

 

He has no idea how much time passes, completely focused on the taste, feel, texture of oswald’s hungry cock, the way he fits perfectly between Edward's lips, how he slides effortlessly down his throat. He just can’t get  _ enough _ of him. 

 

But it has to end, of course it does. Oswald’s hand, which has been resting on the back of Ed’s head like an anchor to reality, tightens its grip and pushes him down hard. Edward chokes, gags, and tastes the salty-sweet-bitter of come as Oswald erupts in his mouth. He can’t breathe, can’t move, and it’s perfect. He swallows desperately, not wanting a single drop to go to waste, and just as despereately tries to be quiet. Oswald doesn’t make a sound, just a miniscule gasp of pleasure, his fingers raking through Ed’s hair.

 

The door clicks again. Whoever was in has left. Oswald pushes the chair back slightly, smirking down at his dishevelled chief of staff. Takes in his pink cheeks, swollen lips, dazed eyes, the bulge in his pants.

 

He leans down, pulls Ed into a kiss that tastes like love and depravity as he yanks Edward’s fly open. It only takes one touch.

 


	4. Day 4 - "Begging"

“I really need to finish this report” Edward complained, pointedly not looking up from his desk. If he did, he’d get  _ distracted. _ And they didn’t have time for any more distractions. Oswald huffed in annoyance, then sauntered over to Edward’s chair. He placed his hand on Edward’s forearm, and the warmth through the thin shirt fabric was enough to make all the little hairs on his arm stand on end. It was  _ embarrassing _ how quickly he responded to his lover's touch, really it was. 

 

Oswald caressed his arm slowly, fondly. The he leaned down, pressed his lips to Edward’s ear and breathed;

“Come to bed with me...please?”

 

Ed whimpered. The report fell silently from his suddenly uncooperative hands.


	5. Day 5: Cuckolding.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is SMAYLOR. You have been warned.
> 
> warnings: RPF, cheating

The door has barely closed behind them before Robin’s arms are around Cory’s neck even as their mouths desperately press together. His mouth is like fire, ravenous and all consuming, and Cory moans even as he presses greedy kisses wherever he can reach; mouth, cheeks, eyes, forehead, ears, neck. Robin’s already gasping with pleasure, trembling in Cory’s arms even as he clings to him like he is afraid he’ll vanish.

“Please” he moans, as Cory presses him up against the door, pressing against him, one leg between thighs eagerly parting.

“Robin” Cory groans against his pale neck, wanting to bite and bruise but knows it isn’t allowed.

 

Instead, he pulls Robin’s shirt over his head and throws it to the floor, pressing the other man further up the wall so he can feast on his already swollen nipples. Robin’s moans are like a symphony as his fingers bury themselves in Cory’s hair, legs coming up to wrap around his waist as they grind against each other, hardness against hardness between layers of stiff wool trousers.

 

Cory loves playing with Robin’s nipples; they’re so responsive, hardening and swelling almost immediately under his eager tongue as he leaves them with saliva, sucking and licking and wishing he dared to bite. Robin shoves his fist into his mouth to keep from screaming in pleasure; the sounds of the party can be heard through the closed door and they really, really don’t want anyone walking in on them like this.

 

“God!” Robin keens when Cory lightly bites one stiff nipple, burying his nails in the taller man’s shoulder. Their mouths find each other again, desperate, frantic, and Cory stumbles backwards towards the bed. It’s not easy to walk, carry his lover, and kiss the man’s breath away at the same time but it's not the first time he has done this so he manages.

 

They collapse onto the bed in a flurry of scorching kisses and desperately groping hands, clothes flying all over the room as they rip and tear at them in a rush to get at each other’s naked skin. 

“Careful!” Cory protests as Robin rips his shirt of, but he doesn’t really care. If it was up to him he’d go back to the party later wearing nothing but sweat and passion marks.

 

Robin is sprawled before him, naked and hard and willing and stunningly beautiful, a flush sweeping from his neck down over his chest. The gods would weep, Cory thinks as he falls on top of the smaller man, their hard cocks pressing and sliding together as they gasp and moan and strain, clinging to each other like the world is ending.

 

“Fuck me” Robin demands hoarsely between kisses, his legs once more coming up to wrap around Cory’s waist. “I got ready earlier, c’mon baby.”

 

As if to prove the statement, his greedy fingers wrap around Cory’s hard cock and guides it in between his legs, into his slick hole, gaping like a hungry mouth. Cory nearly blisses out from the feeling, but by God he needs this and he kisses Robin again with viciousness, biting his lips even as he shoves his hips forward. They both cry out as he goes into the hilt in one thrust, the feeling of being so completely joined almost overwhelming.

 

But Robin is impatient, always impatient, and he squeezes his inner muscles around Cory’s dick in a soundless demand for more. Cory almost goes cross-eyed at the feel, starting a quick brutal rhythm of thrusts that has them both crying out with abandonment as Robin’s body opens for him like fertile soil for the plough.

 

Cory presses his hand over Robin’s mouth to silence his wild cries as he thrusts, angling his hips just so to make sure to hit the spot that always drives Robin wild. The smaller man’s heels dig into the back of his thighs, nails raking down his back as they writhe against each other, with each other, every thrust Cory does resulting in a cry from Robin. His cries are wild and ecstatic, even muffled by Cory’s hand, and his hard cock drools and jerks between their bodies as they come together over and over again. 

 

Robin twists his head so that Cory’s hand dislodges, just enough for him to gasp out a “harder!” and Cory obeys him, changing the rhythm of his fucking to deep, slow thrusts that pushes Robin across the bed with each one, earning him wild cries of pleasure. Robin is like a furnace beneath him, his ass like a velvet glove as it wraps around Cory’s cock, pulling him in and holding him fast. It’s like his body resists every time Cory pulls out, wanting to keep him in. 

 

“God!” Cory moans desperately as Robin fucks up to meet him, their bodies slapping together in an obscene way, the smack of flesh on flesh as disgusting as it is beautiful and Robin’s moans are constant now, only broken by little shrieks of pleasure as Cory hits his prostate, pummeling it ruthlessly as he fucks, fucks like he has something to prove, like he wants to destroy the man clawing at his back.

 

Perhaps he does, because Robin destroys him every day, every moment of every day and he is heaven and he is hell and he is biting Cory’s shoulder and moaning “fuck me you bastard”. And he does, brutally, rutting into him like a beast and it’s glorious in its depravity.

 

Robin’s shrieks are becoming cries, his hole clenching around Cory’s cock like a vice as he claws and scratches and writhes and shudders, his toes curling and his eyes rolling back in his head. He’s delirious and ecstatic and so close, god, harder, fuck, Cory.

 

Cory throws his head back and howls as he comes, balls deep and shattered, not caring if they’re caught because the pleasure of that moment is so intense nothing else exists. Robin is screaming his name and erupting beneath him and his ass tightens up so much it’s almost painful to fuck him but Cory fucks him anyway, straight through his orgasm, straight into heaven.

 

When Cory finally descends from paradise, he is alone.


	6. Day 6: size

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know either

When Oswald was a little boy he overheard his mother talking with a few other women who lived on their street. This wasn’t unusual, but he remembers this moment clearly because of how frustrated he was over not understanding what they meant. They were giggling about a handyman down the street, and the size of his hands. One of the ladies, he thinks it was Sylvie with the red hair, had said that he had big feet too, and it had made Gertrude giggle in a way that Oswald didn’t recognise. Later that night, as she tucked him into bed, he had worried about it.

“But what if I never grow big?” He had fretted, “my hands are very small. And my feet too.” And Gertrude had smiled, tucked an errant strand of hair away from his face, and said,

“Well, I’ll tell you a secret, liebchen. One you will understand when you’re a big boy one day. It’s not the size of a man’s hands or feet that counts.” 

He still hadn’t understood, but she had refused to tell him anything else and bore all his consequent worrying about his size with good humour.

It had taken him most of his teens to understand what she meant, what she really meant.

 

That was probably why he was laughing so hard now, when Ed scowled at him in frustration.

“What’s so darn funny about my  _ shoe size? _ ” the taller man demanded, a flush creeping up his neck.

Oswald finally took pity on him, pulling his sort-of-boyfriend close and enjoying the way Ed’s large hands fit just right around his waist.

“My mama told me that it’s not the size of a man’s hands for feet that counts. She forgot to mention that they’re usually proportionate.” 

Ed’s confusion gave way to embarrassed amusement as Oswald boldly pressed his hand between his legs, clearly seeking confirmation.

“Trust your mother to tell you a dick joke.” He muttered, but he couldn’t help but smile. 


	7. worship

Oswald mutters in half-hearted protest and rolls over, burying his face in the pillows. His hair is sleep-mussed, and vivid bruises bloom in his pale skin. In the early morning light, he is a vision that takes Edward’s breath away. 

So really, you can’t blame him if he can’t resist running a finger from the special spot just behind Oswald’s ear, down his throat and back. Or that he follows that finger with his tongue.

“Hmm” the smaller man makes a noise that is clearly approving, but otherwise doesn’t hint at being aware of Ed’s attentions. No matter, his fingers do not need cooperation to learn every inch of pale, pale skin bared and vulnerable to his touch.

Last night had been out of Edward’s wildest dreams, wild in that it had destroyed him and rebuilt him, as he fell apart over and over again under talented lips and hands. 

Now he wants to repay the favour, learn what causes his ...lover?... to sigh, moan, call his name, claw at the sheets. Anything, everything. 

Edward’s tongue paints a picture of wonderment, the medium saliva on skin. Every stroke pulls a shiver from the body underneath the canvas, but the man inhabiting that body still lies still and pliant, accepting the devotion as if it is his due.

And the sun shines in through the windows, giving the colours of the ephemeral artwork a golden hue, turning white into silver as fleetingly as love.


	8. Day 8: Role-play

The emperor reclines on a decadent pile of expensive pillows, watching with hooded eyes as the young slave boy carefully sets a plate of fruit and cheeses in front of him on the low wooden table. The boy bows his head, peeking shyly at the Living God in front of him. He has never dared dream to be so close to him, to be allowed to serve at his private table. It is an honour of more worth than any jewel known to man, and if he is to die this night then he will do so joyously knowing the emperor himself has ordered it.

 

The emperor is not a kind man; his temper will never allow it. No, he is a volcano, ready to erupt at any moment and destroy all in his path. A slave boy is nothing to this man, who can take what he pleases and have his victims thank him for his malevolence.

 

The slave boy’s hands shake a little as he pours the wine from the fine decanter into the gold-encrusted cup, offering it to his master. The emperor accepts the cup, drinking slowly, watching the slave boy with hooded eyes over the rim of the cup.

 

“You do not kneel to me” the tone is deceptively soft, too calm, and the slave boy trembles in sudden terror. He can feel the executioner’s blade press into the nape of his neck. 

 

“Forgive me” he says, his voice barely audible. “My leg…”

 

The emperor puts the cup down, his eyes hooded. He raises an elegant hand, gleaming with jewels, in a demanding gesture. The slave boy obeys, slowly moving closer. His twisted leg makes his movement jerky and uneven, and he aches with longing to be graceful. The queen is graceful, as is each beauty in the emperor's harem. But he has no grace, only this unseemly body of his, too thin and pale and crooked.

 

But the emperor demands, and he obeys. The soft fabric of his loose trousers yield immediately to demanding hands, falling and pooling around his feet. He stares determinedly at the wall, the expensive drapes so far from what he is used to. 

 

The emperor’s hands are cold, making the slave boy gasp involuntarily as they touch the scarred skin around the ruined knee.

 

“So you will not bend,” the emperor murmurs, more to himself, “or is it this that will not bend?”

 

Realising he is expected to answer, the slave boy does so. “I would grovel before you” and it is true. For this man is everything, and he is nothing.

 

“No” the emperor shakes his head firmly, hands sliding up the slave boy’s legs to rest as his too-narrow hips. “I do not care for grovelling.”

 

It is an odd thing to say, and the oddness in it distracts the slave boy so much he does not protest when the emperor swiftly removes the rest of his clothing, leaving him bare in all his deficiency.

 

There are other scars, of course, and each feels the cold press of the emperor’s touch.

“You are not flawless” the emperor says, thoughtfully. “Never before have they sent me one who is not flawless.”

 

He closes his eyes in shame, tears stinging and hanging heavy from dark lashes.

“I am sorry” he says, and he is. The Living God should only ave perfect things, and he is far from perfect.

 

Cold fingertips pressing to his lips, chafed and bitten, seeking entrance to his mouth. He obeys. Cold hands lock around his neck, momentarily, and he wonders if this is how he will die. At the hands of a man who is more than life itself.

 

Then, the emperor presses a kiss to his forehead, as if he is a small child needing comfort.

 

“Fear not, child” the emperor says as he lays the slave boy out before him on the fine silks; “I am pleased.”


	9. day 9: lingerie

If anyone asks (not that they’d dare) it’s for medical purposes. Which is true, actually; since Fish had his leg smashed, Oswald’s back has been curving slightly, overcompensating the uneven gait, putting undue pressure on pretty much all other joints. That was why he started wearing the hated contraption. The  _ corset. _

Well, it used to be a hated contraption. Until he saw his chief of staff go more or less cross eyed when he saw a small peek of it under the edge of Oswald’s shirt, which was insisting on riding up. After that, it was intriguing. 

 

But it doesn’t explain at all why he is where is is now, staring at himself in the mirror. Medical corsets is one thing (they look like harnesses, for one thing), but… this one has. Well. it has  _ lace. _ Black lace over dark purple fabric, emphasising the curve of his hips and somehow making him just that bit more masculine. It is so clearly a feminine item, but it feels… good. It’s harder and more unyielding than what he is used to, forcing his back to straighten. It also forces him to push his hips back slightly, creating a sway in his hips as he walks. And no, he is  _ not  _ worried it’s making his ass look big. Oswald examines himself carefully in the floor length mirror. The corset ends just above his nipples, and due to cinching in at his waist it gives the impression of more… fullness in the area. He already knows that his looks are rather androgynous, but with this… he almost feels… dainty. Delicate. He fancies his collarbones have deepened, his skin paled to almost translucency. The white shirt hangs open, waiting to be buttoned up and pushed into his trousers, but he is loathe to move from the mirror. 

 

He feels more than hears the door open, and instead of pulling the shirt closed and yelling at the man entering, he simply waits. Wanting to see his reaction. 

 

Edward stands immobile for several moments, staring wide-eyed at the man in front of him. Bared, accentuated, as if on display, on offer. And oh, the purple fabric, the black lace… he looks effervescent, ethereal. He opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. Instead, he presses reverent lips to a soft collarbone, hands stroking over the soft-rough fabric, trembling as Oswald sighs against him, long arms winding around Edward neck as his head falls back, offering everything.

 

So he takes. 


	10. Day 10: gun-play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I failed this prompt miserably… at least there’s a gun.

Edward stared down at the man kneeling in front of him, a gun pressed firmly to his forehead. It was a bit anticlimactic, really. Shouldn’t he feel satisfied? Vindicated? He had been waiting for what felt like an eternity. Since the day he realised exactly how his precious Isabela had died.

 

Oswald’s face was cut in stone, even though the position ought to be agonizing. His leg must surely be screaming in pain at this point, the ruined knee forced to not only bend, but press onto cold concrete. But it seemed as if the Mayor didn’t care; his eyes, which until mere moments ago had been pleading, were vacant. As if he was just… waiting. 

 

“I’m going to kill you like a dog” Edward goaded, hoping to draw some sort of reaction. There wasn’t one. Just silent waiting, vacant eyes. “I loved her!”

 

There was a flicker of a reaction. Just a moment, but Ed had seen it. Pain. No, not pain. Agony. Like… like the pain he had felt when he found out about Isabela. When he realised about Kirsten.

 

His hand shook. Oswald closed his eyes, resigned. 

 

Edward’s eyes blurred with tears. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.


	11. Collar

Oswald can clearly hear the click of the lock, but doesn’t look up at the man who has just entered his office. It’s part of the game; act oblivious until interrupted, put up a struggle, get overpowered, the usual drill.

His breathing grows short, though, as Ed’s long fingers slip under the collar of his shirt to find smooth leather, clasped tightly around his throat.

“Too tight?” Ed croons in his ear and the report slips quietly from Oswald’s suddenly limp fingers.

“No” he breathes, the constricting material making it hard to swallow. 

 

Ed hooks a finger under the collar and uses it to drag Oswald to his feet, making the smaller man whimper as his breathing is almost completely cut off. The penguin makes no protest as Ed lifts him up on the desk, fingers deftly undoing the buttons on his shirt even as Ed’s clever mouth finds the sensitive skin rubbed raw by the collar and rakes his teeth down Oswald’s neck.


	12. Forced orgasm

“Noooo” Oswald moans desperately as Edward pushes in, hard and hungry. “Don’t- I can’t- AH!” 

Ed presses him down into the bed, pulling his healthy leg up so that he’s nearly bent in half as he thrusts, slow and languid. Oswald makes a noise that’s somewhere between a sob and a moan as his abused prostate is forced to receive more stimulation than he can handle.

“Yes you can, fuck, yes you can.” Edward’s mouth is burning hot, his hands like ice, his pace brutal as he fucks, his grip forcing Oswald to simply lie back and take it again, every thrust making an obscene squelching noise as a mix of lube and come drips from his ass. He’s so sore, too sore, but  _ god _ it’s good. 

“Ed” he keens, wanting the other man to know that this is past pleasure, into torment, and he’ll kill him if he stops. Every thrust makes his overstimulated nerve endings cry out, white-hot pleasure throbbing through him as Ed presses him down, fucking into him with quick hard jabs that makes his entire body jolt with each thrust. 

“Please” Oswald screams as his eyes rolls back in his head. “God!”

“Come for me” Edward demands, voice hoarse, eyes black with passion.

“I can’t” Oswald sobs, his dick jerking in a desperate attempt to get hard again, but he’s already come four times and a fifth is too much to ask for.

But Ed isn’t asking, he’s demanding, his hips pumping a ruthless rhythm against Oswald’s ass and he knows he has bruises, and god, it’s so good. He wants him to stop and to keep going until he dies from the intensity. He rakes his nails down Ed’s back, sobbing.

“Oh god, stop, please-”

Ed’s mouth claims his in a kiss that leaves his lips sore.

“You don’t want me to stop” he groans, each word emphasised by another thrust, and damn the man for being right.

“Ed!” Oswald shrieks as a particularly vicious thrust threatens to unravel him completely.

Ed groans, changing the angle of his thrusts, pushing in just a bit deeper.

Oswald screams in a mixture of pain and pleasure as heat starts building again, knowing that he’s about to reach nirvana for the fifth time this night and not quite wanting to fall.

Ed presses scorching kisses to his neck and gripping him tighter, pressing him down into the protesting mattress and keeps pummelling into his prostate even as Oswald sobs with the need for him to stop.

“God!” Oswald howls as the pleasure becomes too intense and he’s swept away again, his dick jerking uselessly as he comes, shaking and shuddering and clawing at the sheets.

“That’s it” Ed croons, victorious, staring down at the slack-jawed man writhing under him. “Come for me, baby.”


End file.
